Loving the Game, Loving Her
by revanmeetra87
Summary: Edward Gold is at a crossroads in his life. Some think it is time for him to retire from baseball, but can he give up the game he loves more than anything? And is it really the thing he loves most? Based on the movie, For Love of the Game
1. Chapter 1

**Hey Rumbellers! I decided to fic one of my favorite movies of all time,** ** _For Love of the Game._** **I thought our favorite imp and beautiful bookworm were the best fit for the characters. Please note, though you don't have to love sports to enjoy this story, a big part of it IS about baseball. But there is even more about Rumbelle!**

 **This story is a bit angsty…Ok, pretty angsty. But I promise there is payoff! This is literally the only movie I have outright cried at. Oh, and please note, this movie was made in 1999, and will be set in that time period, as a couple of the plot points rely on not having modern tech (no cell phones in this one! Lol)**

 **This is a prologue. The chapters will be longer than this. Not sure how often I will update, since I am in the middle of another wip, but the good news is it is all outlined. Hope you enjoy!**

 **I do NOT own the movie or the show, or any of the characters. This is merely a creative endeavor to showcase the stories and characters I love**

* * *

 _All his life, baseball had been his world_

 _From the moment he could stand, he had toddled around with a baseball and bat in hand._

 _Even as a child, he'd taken the game more seriously than his peers. While the other seven-year-olds had been watching clouds and digging in the infield dirt, Edward Gold had waited in the ready position, hand and glove on knees, for every single pitch._

 _As he grew, it continued._

 _Malcom, his father, a charismatic man who had missed his chance at the major-league level because of Edward's birth, spent hours and hours showing him how to hold a bat, how to field grounders, and how to pitch._

 _Sometimes Edward wondered which Malcom loved more: him, or the game. Was the time spent on the sweet-smelling ballfield grass for his benefit, or Malcom's?_

 _But, as he loved the game just as much as his father, he never questioned it._

 _The intricacies of pitching fascinated Edward the most: Ball stitches were held like a horseshoe for the two-seam fastball, and sideways for the four-seam. Fingers trailing to one side of the stitching for a curve. Just the way the ball was held completely affected how the ball was thrown._

 _He quickly found he had a talent for pitching, and Malcom and Fiona, his mother, encouraged him every step of the way. Soon, scouts were eyeing him._

 _By the time he was in high school, he was a star known throughout the state. As soon as he graduated, he was drafted by the Detroit Tigers._

 _He had a long, and lustrous career, including a world series win and three Cy Young awards._

 _But today, as he walked through the New York airport with his team nearing the end of this season, years and years after all that had happened over his now-dwindling career, all he could think about was_ her _._


	2. Chapter 2

"Your leg feeling okay?" asked Neal, swinging his carry-on bag from one shoulder to the other and nearly clipping Gold with the duffle.

They were in the middle of their considerable group of teammates, coaches and trainers, ambling their way through the airport and toward the exit where their team bus waited, and Neal Cassidy still found opportunity to pester him.

"Just splendid," Gold informed the other man, rolling his own small suitcase behind him.

Neal was a catcher – for all intents and purposes, Gold's catcher, due to the fact that he was a backup, and generally only penciled into the lineup when Gold was pitching. Even though Gold was only a decade or so older than Neal, the younger man was like a son to him.

Not that he'd ever admit to the sentimental feeling.

"I saw you limping. You're limping right now, man."

Gold straightened, trying to even his gait. It was just like Neal to notice. "It only seems that way because I am dragging this case. It's at an awkward angle."

Neal quieted for several seconds, and all Gold could hear was the shuffling of his teammates' feet and the droning of the PA system as an announcement was made.

"How long has it been hurting?" Neal asked at last.

"Glass wants me to pitch tomorrow," Gold said, both avoiding the question and preparing his friend for the inevitable event.

Neal's reaction was exactly what Gold had predicted it would be. "What! You gotta be kiddin' me. Nun-uh, there's no way you're doing it. No reason to risk it. It's the end of a terrible season – you know what, I'm gonna go talk to Sidney right now." He took a large stride, but was cut off by their first baseman, David Nolan, who had spotted a rubbish bin and was moving to throw his disposable coffee cup away.

Gold took the opportunity to grip Neal's arm and stop the man from any rash action.

Thankfully, Neal didn't fight him, but couldn't help sullenly remarking, "Ed, it's a meaningless game, anyway. It's pointless for you to risk hurting yourself again."

Gold set his teeth. No game was meaningless. "It's important to the Red Sox." If the Yankees won tomorrow, they would clinch the division championship, and the Red Sox would have to make do with the Wild Card berth in the playoffs, which led to undesirable playoff match ups.

Yes, to the Yankees and Red Sox, this game was the culmination of their whole season.

Neal, meanwhile, was still pouting. "I see you wince even one time…" He trailed off warningly, leaving the threat unspoken.

"Yes, mother," Gold said drily.

David, noticing them lagging behind the rest of the group, called out, "Hey, we leaving you two behind, or what? Come on, bus is this way."

Single file, the team trickled through the doors of the airport, where their transport was waiting, growling its low, diesel roar.

Gold decided to forgo stowing his suitcase, lifting it up the steep steps of the bus and setting it on his lap when he found an empty seat beside one of the grimy bus windows.

Neal sprawled into the spot next to him, leaning his head against the backrest with a tired sigh. "Last series this year. Golf courses, here I come."

Gold nodded, but did not comment. The off-season was not a respite to him; but rather, a hibernation of boredom and loneliness.

Except for the years he had been with Belle.

His heart rate increased as he thought of her blue eyes, the silk of her dark hair that drove him mad every time he ran his fingers through it. At last, he was going to see her again.

He was going to see her _tonight_ , and fix whatever it was that had gone wrong between them.

As if reading his thoughts, Neal said, "So, New York. I wonder if Belle is in town."

"Why do you ask?" Gold replied, unconsciously hunching his shoulders and fixing his attention at the New York skyline so his friend couldn't read his face.

"Because I miss her. And I know you do, too," Neal said plainly, trying to stretch his legs in the cramped space.

"Hey, watch it!" Jefferson complained from the seat in front of them as Neal's foot accidentally connected with the back of his bench.

"Sorry, Jeff," Neal apologized to their third baseman. "My knees hurt after sitting for that flight."

"Fine, just don't kick me again." Jefferson was a bit of a strange character. Gold had never seen him without a hat of some kind, even when they weren't at the stadium. But he was team, and therefore he was family.

"Speaking of Belle, how is Tamara?" Gold asked, remembering the look in Neal's eyes when he had handed Gold a _save the date_ rsvp a week ago.

Gold knew a mistake when he saw one, and Tamara was Neal's. He didn't throw around the words _gold digger_ lightly, finding the term distasteful, but that was exactly what Tamara was. She was an aspiring model and fame seeker, always trailing along to team events and charities in the hope that the cameras would catch her. As far as Gold could tell, she didn't seem to have any true feelings for her fiancé, and it broke Gold's heart to know Neal was planning to go through with the wedding this off-season.

He had much preferred Neal's last girlfriend, a girl by the name of Emma Swan. She was much younger than Neal, all of 19, but had adored _him_ and not his major-league status. Something had caused them to break up, however, and while Neal didn't like to talk about it, he had all but admitted the blame lay with him.

Tamara brought Neal joy in the aftermath of Miss Swan, and artificial as it may have been, Gold was reluctant to give his true thoughts on the matter.

"Tamara is fine," Neal said, digging a battered _Sports Illustrated_ from his duffel and paging through it. "Busy, with the wedding planning, but fine. Hey, check out this article on Ivan Rodriguez. Pudge is getting the MVP award this year, easy. Way to represent catchers, Pudge. We get overlooked."

"In my opinion, pitchers get overlooked," Gold said, beginning to recognize city streets as they drew closer to the hotel.

"Yeah, right. You guys are the most coddled divas on the entire team. Never mind the MVP, you guys get your own special award category while the rest of us fight for scraps," Neal teased.

Gold continued the banter, his deadpan delivery against Neal's spirited ribbing, but his mind was barely aware of what he was saying.

For his thoughts were consumed by Belle, and what he was going to say to her that evening.

* * *

Later, at the front desk, the concierge - a charming elderly woman whose real name was Amelia Lucas, but who was referred to as nothing besides 'Granny' by guests and staff alike - smiled slyly at Gold. "Are we expecting a Miss French this evening?"

Even hearing her name spoken by another made Gold feel like a schoolboy, giddy and lovesick. "Indeed, we are. What name am I registered under?"

"Rumpelstiltskin. The fairy tale character, you know. I believe it was the Tigers front office's idea of a joke, perhaps."

Palms cold from nerves, Gold adjusted the tie around his neck. "Inform the front desk I don't wish to speak with anybody but her. Tonight," he stressed, pressing a sizeable tip into the woman's hand, "everything has to be perfect."

"You know you can count on me, Mr. Gold."


	3. Chapter 3

His enormous suite, billed to his own account for the luxury, was like a beach at the end of summer – empty in a lonely, ghostlike way.

Gold travelled from room to room, sometimes pacing, sometimes wandering aimlessly. Every once in a while, the small, fancily decorated table would catch his notice, with its crisp, lacy tablecloth and expensive wine in a bucket of ice, completely at odds with the more casual meal of hamburgers he'd ordered (Belle's favorite).

Granny had outdone herself, even adding the extra pickles he'd asked for, and Belle had not arrived in the last 20 minutes since he'd spent expecting her.

Skin tingling with fear or foreboding, he checked both his watch and the alarm clock near the bed. They both confirmed the time, and Belle's concerning absence.

He called her, but there was no answer at the apartment. It gave him hope that she might have been on her way.

But a half hour later, she still hadn't come.

Gold was beginning to panic. He _needed_ to see her; hadn't really realized how much until now. Needed it like he needed the air in his lungs and the ground beneath his feet. It had been too long, and like a plant living in the shadows, was slowly dying without her light.

Not knowing what to do, he sat on the bed and picked up the hotel phone again.

Granny answered after two rings.

"This is Edward Gold."

"Hello, Mr. Gold," said the woman, steadily and businesslike. "I trust everything was to your satisfaction?"

"Indeed. It was very nice. I was just wondering if there have been any messages left for me?"

With a small grunt, as though she knew exactly the situation, Granny replied, "Can't say that I've gotten any, but I'll double check with the others. One moment."

Gold waited, bouncing his foot on the floor anxiously. Moments later, the old woman came back to the phone.

"No messages, Mr. Gold. Would you like me to contact you immediately if somebody does leave one?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Gold said, "Yes, yes, let me know."

No alternatives but to try Belle's number again, Gold called her once more, and this time left her a recording on her machine.

"Belle. Sweetheart, where are you? I'm worried." Breathing deeply, he asked, "Are you there? If you are, please pick up."

The machine cut him off before he could say more.

He placed the phone on the receiver and jumped to his feet again, aggravating his already sore leg.

At the table, the mostly-melted ice bucket and cold hamburgers seemed to taunt him. Giving up, he went to sit at the table he'd been so excited to present to Belle, and opened the wine. Removing his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he dipped his throwing elbow into the ice and winced at the bracing cold. Then, slowly, he lifted the wine and began to drink straight from the bottle.

He didn't really keep track of things after that – he vaguely remembered finishing the bottle, staggering to the bed, and falling facedown – but it might have been an hour or two before he heard heavy knocking on the door of his suite.

 _Belle_ , he thought, getting up and making a beeline for the door. It was only a setback. Maybe she'd just been nervous, like him. Granny could send them fresh meals and-

Gold opened the door to Neal, who had his hands stuffed in his pockets and a chipper smile on his face. "Hey, finally. I've been knocking loud enough that other guests were sticking their heads out of their rooms. I was waiting for you at the gym but you never showed. I made Granny give me your room number."

Gold scowled. Maybe he'd have to take that generous tip back from the meddlesome concierge after all. He liked Neal, but all he wanted right now was to be alone.

Ducking under Gold's arm, Neal made his way into the suite. He whistled softly when he saw the discarded jacket and empty bottle on the floor.

"Jeez, what happened? Belle here?"

"No," Gold growled, response instant and vehement.

Shaking his had, Neal picked up the wine bottle and set it back on the table. "You know, chief, you need to throw tomorrow!"

"I don't need to hear it." The door rattled with another knock, this one softer. Panicked, Gold started for the bathroom to throw water on his face. Belle couldn't see him like this. "Neal, that could be her. Can you…"

Rolling his eyes, Neal did as he was bidden.

Patting his face dry with one of the embroidered hotel towels, Gold glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Neal was right; he could have looked better. But his blotched face and heavy eyes would have to do.

Hoping he would have the courage to face Belle, he tentatively left the sink.

He came back to the main room to find that Neal had welcomed not Belle, but the team owner, Leopold White.

"Mr. White," Gold said, trying to summon enthusiasm. Leopold was a good man, and a better owner could not be found in the league, but he had so been hoping it was Belle.

Rubbing at his grizzled white hair, the man smiled faintly. "Good evening, Edward. Do you have time for a chat?"

Hoping his boss wouldn't smell the wine on his breath, Rumple nodded. "I do. Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you."

Neal jabbed a thumb in the direction of the door. "I'm just gonna catch you later, Eddie. Good to see you, as always, Mr. White."

"Goodbye, Neal," said Leopold, and Neal nodded as he left the suite.

Walking toward the small table, Leopold lowered himself into one of the chairs and curiously lifted one of the tin lids off the plate of likely-spoiled meat and wilting fries. Replacing the lid without comment, he continued, "Wasn't easy to get to you. I had to prove my identity to a rather feisty guardian of a concierge."

Gold chuckled. "Granny treats me right. I've known her many years."

"You weren't even on the register. 'Rumpelstiltskin'? Now that's the most interesting alias I have heard in my entire tenure as owner of this team. I suppose your fame comes with a price."

Wondering where Leopold was going with this, Gold shrugged halfheartedly. "Can I get you anything?" The wine was gone, the food was inedible, but there was always the minibar.

"Oh, I'm quite all right. Please, sit with me," he invited, and Gold joined him at the table. "It hasn't been the most magical year, has it?"

Laughing in acknowledgement, Gold said, "No. There's always next year, though."

Sighing loudly, looking as though he wished he had taken up Gold's offer of a drink, Leopold confessed, "Not for me, I'm afraid. It's something of an open secret. But what you don't know is that it became official not long ago. Edward, I sold the Tigers."

In the last of the evening light, filtering weakly through the windows, Gold suddenly became aware of how old Leopold looked in that moment.

There was a heavy silence. "That is…good news?" Gold said, and the ending almost came out like a question.

"Is it?" Folding his hands, Leopold shook his head. "Edward, you have been the heart and soul of this team. Like family. And through all the negotiations, they never even spoke up."

Confused, Gold rubbed at his elbow, working out the stiffness that the icing hadn't helped. "Spoke up about what?"

"They are planning to trade you to the Giants."

For the second time that day, Gold felt like the rug had been yanked from under his feet, and his world was spinning with no way for him to catch up. "I see," he said finally. "And you came here to warn me?"

"Not quite." Looking at him sadly, Leopold explained, "I am not sure how to say this. I've been watching you for 18 years. Nothing has given me more pleasure. You're one of the 'Old Boys', they were _golden_. They had that special pride. When they were finished, that was that. Nobody had to show them the door."

Feeling a bitter taste in his mouth, Gold said, "You think I should retire."

"I do, son. It wouldn't hurt negotiations, and it would serve those S.O.B's right."

Staring down at the lacy tablecloth, delicate and beautiful like his Belle, Gold stammered, "I just…I don't know what to say." Leopold had been perhaps the only person who understood what the game meant to him. And now he was advising him to throw it away.

Scoffing, Leopold said, "I know you must have at least considered it before. You've been wise with your money, correct?"

"I've just…I've always been a Tiger."

"I know, Edward. That's why this is killing me. You know, my own father bought this team when I was 7? I grew up watching the Tigers. I was going to leave the team to my Mary Margaret, but she doesn't even like baseball, even though she's married to David. Everything's changed, you see? The players, the fans...tv rights, the arbitration...everything's different. The game stinks, and I...I can't be a part of that anymore."

The shrill ringing of the phone cut into their conversation, and Gold signaled to it. "Do you mind if…?"

"Of course not."

Hastening to the phone, Gold answered the call. "Hello?"

He heard a static, warbling noise, and then Belle's unmistakable accent, speaking words that were hard for him to understand, either because of the phone or her own emotion.

"Hello? Belle? Where are you?"

" 'M 'ere," he could barely hear her say. "Downstairs. I think I should leave…I didn't want…Worry you."

"No!" he cried. "Please stay there. I am on my way down." Frantically he hung up and rushed to the door, past Leopold, who asked, "What do you want me to tell them?"

He had almost forgotten the reason Leopold had come to his suite to begin with. "Look, I need some more time…to think…" He opened the door and prepared to run for the elevator. But before he left, he added, "The game doesn't stink, Mr. White. It's a great game."

* * *

He left the elevator almost at a sprint as he rushed to the lobby. There was no sign of a beautiful woman with a bag of books, and panic clutched his chest.

"Mr. Gold!" cried Granny, who had spotted him. "I'm sorry. She left, I couldn't stop her. I offered her a cab but she insisted she wanted to take a walk in Central Park and clear her head."

Central Park? When it was about to be dark out? Not once slowing, Gold ran for the exit, breezing by a bellhop who brightly said, "Go easy on our boys tomorrow, Eddie!"

* * *

Gold jogged along the paths of the park, under the shade of trees that would soon be losing their leaves, and finally spotted Belle, sitting on the bleachers of a small baseball diamond. He smiled. She must have wanted him to find her, gravitating to the spot he'd be most likely to notice.

She was curled up with her knees near her chest, her trusty bag of notebooks and novels with her, as he had guessed it would be. Some things, years couldn't change.

Gold approached her carefully, then became concerned when he saw her wiping at her eyes with a wad of white paper. "Belle? Are you crying?"

His fingers naturally reached for her face, wanting nothing more than to tenderly wipe away her tears, but she pushed his hand away and dug a small roll of toilet paper from her pocket.

"What's the matter?" Gold asked, daring to sit next to her on the worn metal bench.

"They didn't have Kleenex in the ho - hotel bathroom," Belle whispered, tearing a few sheets from the roll and sniffing as she tried to control her voice.

"I don't understand. What's going on, Belle?" He knew they hadn't left each other on the best terms, but this was something he couldn't contemplate. What had he done to upset her so? She had even agreed to meet him for dinner in his suite. Had something changed?

"I've been sitting in the lobby for the last t…t…two hours," Belle said, licking her lips and staring purposely in front of her, not meeting his eyes.

Without warning, she slapped her hands into her lap. "I'm sorry I didn't call today. I could tell your voice was worried and I-"

"If something's wrong, Belle, just say it!" Gold begged. How could he help her if he didn't know what was distressing her? "We never…" He let himself trail off forlornly. "We never had to fake it."

As he took her in, all her beauty and misery, she seemed framed by the green of the surrounding park, the color of grass thriving after a rainstorm.

He waited.

Finally, Belle said, "I'm leaving. I'm going to London."

Shocked, Gold nearly slid from the bleachers. She couldn't…Couldn't… "What?"

"I was offered a job. A very good job; the one I always wanted. An editor's position. I tried all day to think of a way to tell you, but I just couldn't. I still can't."

"What can I say?" Gold begged. He wasn't even sure what he was asking of her: to stay, to explain, to give him words to make things right.

"I can't tell you that, Eddie. But it's going to be okay. It'll be all right. I knew it, the day I first met you five years ago."

"What, what?" he asked, and never had he felt so lost.

"I've always known," Belle continued, almost to herself.

"Knew what?" he burst out. She was pulling his heart from his chest, and she didn't even know it.

"You never needed me. You and the ball the diamond, you're…" Her hands gestured helplessly, tissues trailing along like a banner as she searched for the right word. " _Perfect_. Your perfectly beautiful thing. You can win or lose the game all by yourself…"

Her head bowed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She got up, folding her arms and turning away from him.

No, this could not be it. This couldn't be the last time he saw her. Their story could not end this way. He stood, taking her arm. "Have supper with me tomorrow night, Belle, after the game. We'll go somewhere special."

"I can't. My plane leaves tomorrow afternoon, they wanted me there a week ago, then you called and I wanted to see you. I wanted to say goodbye." Throwing her arms around him, she murmured into his ear, "Goodbye, Eddie."


End file.
